


Duchenne Smiles

by sharkbuddie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drinking, Eventual Smut, F/F, Genderfluid Character, Hospitals, Multi, No Lesbians Die, Nonbinary Character, Old Age, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29328474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkbuddie/pseuds/sharkbuddie
Summary: Two old women find that they have more in common than just a work history and a love for the sciences.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. Working too Hard

**Author's Note:**

> hi!!! back at it again, using fiction to cope with my dysphoria. uwu enjoy!

Her coffee is bitter. She isn’t surprised in the least, the pot is hours old and probably made with subpar beans. The coffee in the hospital break room is always like this when she’s working, which seems like an unfair turn of fate given she basically lives in those duck egg blue hallways. She is nearing the apex of her shift now, as the clock turns to 1 AM. Her watch beeps at her to signal the change in the hour, and she presses the little button on the side to silence it. She can feel every inch of her skin, it feels like. The ugly halogen of the hospital lights always feel like they’re baking her throughout the day, leaving her feeling like a crispy rotisserie chicken most days. She takes another disgusted sip of her coffee from her little paper cup. A nurse over the PA suddenly pings her, calling melodically over the loudspeaker _“Paging Doctor Zeigler, paging Doctor Zeigler, please return to the ICU. Doctor Zeigler, ICU.”_

Angela groans. She had let her long, blond hair down to enjoy her break, but she hastily throws it back up into a ponytail with her signature bang on the side as she rises from her seat. She tosses back the last sip or two of her coffee like a shot. Her scrubs are wrinkled from two days worth of use, speckled with colorful spots of rust and dull yellows from God only knows what bodily fluids. She is certainly not the young little nurse she once was. Her step from the shiny world of Overwatch to the real world has come with a price The stress of the fall of Overwatch combined with more or less running the ICU and the neurosurgery department on her own while also obeying the demands of her male counterparts has aged her, drawing wrinkles at the edges of her blue eyes and painting permanent dark circles around them. She’s filled out since her combat days, growing softer around the edges, forcing her to look more like an overworked single mother than the prestigious pride and joy of her medical school. She remembers often, and bitterly, how this was the life she once wanted. The war, Overwatch, none of it had been in the cards for her when she had thought about her future in the world. But now that she finally had the ‘quiet’ life in her hands, she longed for the days where she would be woken at odd hours of the night to treat Blackwatch battle scars or had to drop into active combat zones to drag the souls of her team back from the pearly gates. What makes it all worse, is she’s still patching up bullet wounds, but when she goes home at night there is no team of welcome arms greeting her. No one tells her she’s done a good job, or that they would’ve been gone without her, or that she has done all she can. She goes home to a dark, empty apartment full of luxurious things she hates and a ginger cat that she adores with all her heart. 

Angela had been lost in thought on her walk to the elevator, snapping out of it only because a flash of white fabric disappearing around the next corner catches her eye. She isn’t armed - hasn’t been in years - but her hand goes to a side arm she doesn’t have anyway. Adrenaline kicks in, heart thump-thump-thumping in her chest like a startled animal in a cage. The halls are as quiet as death this time of night; so quiet, in fact, she can someone breathing. 

“This is a private wing,” she calls out sternly. She presses her back against the wall as she creeps forward. “Visiting hours are over.” 

There is no response. Angela pushes her glasses up her nose. “You must leave now, or security will be informed.” 

When she rounds the corner, she immediately grimaces.

There she is. Doctor Moira O’Deorian. 

Clad in her matching teal scrubs and her long white doctor’s coat, she looks like the bog witches the Celts once warned of. She still has that damned piece of metal around her eye, and it glints in the light. As usual, her nails are as long as a witch’s claws, perfectly colored black and manicured. Dress code has never meant anything to her, and she works in the labs, so nobody cares. Her expression turns from mild boredom to a quirked brow and a thin line drawn across her lips. 

“You look like shite,” is what she says. 

She looks back at her clipboard, flipping the page up. The elevator dings just then, signaling them both onwards. They step inside side by side, then quickly place themselves in opposite corners. Angela will never know what she did to deserve getting stuck in this hospital with that russet-haired goblin, but every time they interact for even a moment she feels sick to her stomach. Their shared history is not something either have been able to move past, even though Overwatch is such a distant memory now. Moira had to have her identity scrubbed to be allowed back into normal society. It must have been a great pain to swallow her pride and give up her claim on all those awful, genius things she had cooked up in the Overwatch basement. Angela detests her, but not only for her lack of ethics or hand in the downfall of her family. 

“You look like a witch,” Angela hisses. She hugs herself. Normally she tries to be the bigger person, but something about Moira brings out a bitterness in her she cannot keep under control. “As usual. And why were you on that floor?” 

“Break time, same as you,” she says with a shrug. She flips to the next page on her clipboard. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on doing anything naughty in the basement this time around.”

Angela huffs. She blows her hair out of her face. “That joke gets less funny every time you tell it, O’Deorian.” 

Moira tuts. “Brannagan, now. According to the government, Moira O’Deorian died in that same blast that killed Jack and Gabriel. Just another buried hero to them now.”

Angela digs her nails into her arm. God, she aches for something to chew on. She had a brief fling with cigarettes when she first got put here, but she has since curbed her habit by chewing gum or pencils. She finds her cheek in her teeth, the coppery tang of fresh blood filling her mouth quite soon after. “You’re wretched.”

“Mm. So I’ve been told.” 

Moira gets off at the floor before hers. She steps out without casting a glance over her shoulder. She does pause, momentarily, to flash a smirk at Angela. “You have crumbs on your scrubs by the way, Doctor Zeigler. Coffee cake, I’m guessing.”

Angela’s face flushes hot. She brushes off her scrubs fervently. The doors slips shut before Moira can get another quip in, thank God. But the damage is done. The last thread of her nerve has torn. If one more thing goes wrong, she’s liable to snap. 

The rest of her shift is uneventful. She checks vitals ensures her patients are taken care of, and finally trudges off to change into street clothes and drive herself home. She normally would slip into something akin to real clothes, usually jeans and a sweater. But today she chooses sloppy grey sweatpants and an old t-shirt with _Mother Mother_ album art splashed across it. She doesn’t even leave her shoes on, opting instead for blue and white striped house slippers. This week she is finally off, which means she can sleep in tomorrow. She likely won’t, because her cat likes to eat bright and early, but she can pretend. Her walk to the parking lot is uneventful. The lobby is empty, devoid of any life aside from the solo security guard posted at the front desk. He doesn’t even look up as she passes. To her chagrin, though, Moira exits the opposite door at the same time as she does. Moira has stripped down to a loose grey collared shirt, jeans, teal sneakers and a long, tan houndstooth coat. She is busy sucking on a lollipop and looking at her phone, so she doesn’t notice Angela at first. But when she does, her face breaks into a grin. 

“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” she chuckles. The woman joins Angela at the revolving door, making it impossible for her to slip into her own part of it. They go through the turns together, Angela grumbling all the while. “You look knackered, sweetheart. Was your day hard?”

Her tone drips with that classic condescension of hers. Angela huffs when they get outside. The cold air hits her like a wall; she left her jacket in her office. 

“Must you accost me even at this hour?” Angela snaps. She hugs herself as she hurriedly shuffles for her car. The parking lot is mostly empty at this time of night. The chilly winter wind dances through the wide open space freely, biting into her bones like a hungry animal. She can see, even from the door, that Moira has parked beside her again. Angela drives a modest two-door, while Moira drives an old, fancy car with sleek black paint and blacked out windows. It isn’t as though Angela couldn’t afford such a nice car - she simply feels no reason to do so. They all run on clean energy, sure, but there is no excuse to be so over the top and flashy. 

“Why yes, it is my side-job, you know,” Moira purrs. She keeps pace with Angela with ease, her long legs working to advantage. “Lost your jumper, have you?”

“I like the cold,” Angela snaps. She pulls her car keys out of her purse, the many keychains on them jingling. She presses the remote start button, praying it’ll be a little warm by the time she arrives. The car lifts off the ground with ease, hovering silently. “I’d think you’d understand, given you have nothing but ice in your chest year round.” 

“Oh, angel, you wound me.” 

When they reach their vehicles, Angela turns on her heel, jabbing a finger into Moira’s chest. She seems pleased with herself, and she hates that. Moira always looks so damned chuffed. Like a child who is presenting its mother with a mudpie full of worms, knowing full-well she will faint at the sight of them. 

“You had better learn some more boundaries before I really lose it,” she hisses. Moira laughs - that deep, villain-like laugh of hers. 

“I’m just teasing, Angela. Do calm down before you have a heart attack. You aren’t nearly as young as you used to be.”

“Neither are you, bog witch!”

Moira laughs again. She pats Angela on the shoulder, an amused grin stuck to her face. She seems unphased by her fussing. “You’re too uptight, even now. Come have a drink with me, would you?” 

Angela blinks. She wasn’t expecting that, that’s for sure. She blinks. 

“What?”

Moira rolls her eyes. “You haven’t become a complete hermit, have you? I said, come drink with me.” 

Angela feels like the floor is about to fall out from under her. Has the Earth come to a standstill? Has the sky suddenly turned green? 

“It’s one in the morning.”

Moira shrugs. “Yes, and? Do you suddenly have a curfew I don’t know about?”

There’s a lot to unpack there. 

“Well, no, I - “

“Then get in the passenger seat.” 

It feels like giving into a crocodile. Angela is sure this is a terrible idea - and she hates this woman! So why does...she want to agree? Moira is persistent, sure, but she would back down if Angela really kicked up a fuss. But she isn’t, despite the latent hunger brewing in her belly and the exhaustion in her bones. She doesn’t drink anything beyond red wine, these days. But…

“Well?”

Angela loosens up, shoulder relaxing under Moira’s hand. She sighs, resigned, and nods. “Alright, but I look like garbage. I hope you’re ready to deal with that.” 

“Oh, Angela,” she purrs, “even at your worst you’re still everyone’s favorite little angel.”


	2. Drinking Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bottoms up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi sorry this took forever im depressed and a college kid. hope u like it <3

Riding in Moira’s car is an experience. 

Many cars these days lack a steering wheel, relying on AI and magnetic roads. But Moira, like Angela, is old fashioned. She seems to enjoy curling her long fingers around the wheel and driving manually. Angela diagnoses it as a bid for power. Just one little thing Moira can control in a world of chaos. There is an odd silence in the car as they drive. Bright neon lights flash by as they blaze down the near-empty streets. This part of town is far more quaint than most, retaining a somewhat cottage-town motif despite the bright lights and abundance of night spots. Its placement near a lake makes it feel extra cold this time of year. It is charming, though, seeing fairy lights strewn across the street lamps. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Moira hums. She glances at Angela from the corner of her eye, a subtle smirk on her angular face. Angela has always thought her expressions were quite catlike; knowingly mischievous, and somehow all-knowing. 

“Just lost in how strange this whole thing is.” Angela smoothes her hair down. It lost some of its neatness in the rush to change into her comfy clothes. Boy, does she feel strange being out and about in sweats and a t-shirt. “You and I have hated each other for years.”

Moira laughs. It’s a quick bark of a laugh, as though someone has punched it out of her. “I have never hated you, Angela.”

She blinks. Again, she finds herself stunned, grasping at air. Moira is an enigma. 

“Anyhow, Overwatch is far behind us now. We made a right dog’s dinner of our relationship back then, so maybe now that it’s ended, we can move on. Build something new.”

Angela isn’t sure what to make of it. Moira seems genuine, but she’s been wrong before. Moira is an expert at manipulation. It...is attractive, as much as it is distasteful. They say nothing else to one another as the drive continues. The city blurs by as snow begins to drift downwards from the cloudy sky. Angela struggles to keep her eyes open. The cool glass of the car window against her forehead combined with the soothing hum of the car is intoxicating. It lulls her aching body into a sort of half-sleep, which is broken when the car suddenly comes to a stop. Angela looks out the window with big eyes. 

“Oh my goodness,” she gasps. The bar they’ve pulled up to is incredibly high-profile. The bright pink lights are blinding, displaying The Cherry Pie boldly against the dark of the sky. The parking lot is full even at this time of night. The line to get in is ridiculous.

“I am not dressed for the Cherry Pie,” she moans. Angela rubs her eyes. “Moira, we are too old to be waiting in the snow…”

Moira waves her off dismissively. She pulls a golden tube of bright red lipstick from the center console, using the car mirror to apply it. “We won’t be waiting. And don’t worry about the outfit.” 

“I am worried…! This...oh, dear…”

Moira tuts. “Come on. We’re not getting any younger.”

Angela takes a moment to smooth out her outfit before getting out. Moira is waiting by the passenger door for her, examining those witch’s claws of hers. She smiles when Angela finally emerges, and offers her an arm. Angela stares at it blankly.

“Well?”

“Why are you offering me your arm?”

Moira rolls her eyes. “Because, you’re my date.”

There’s a lot to unpack, and Angela can’t stop staring like a frightened deer. Moira huffs, giving a very dramatic eye roll before taking the other woman’s arm with a quick sweep. They approach the door with long, confident strides. It is incredibly unnatural for Angela, but she keeps up, though her breath leaves her. The Cherry Pie smells like floral perfume and strawberry lip gloss; just beyond the pink double doors, red and pink light leaks through like pie filling. Music plays just beyond. The bouncer is a tall, buff woman with a half-shaved head and tattoos up and down each arm. The line is full of many, much younger girls all dressed scantily, shivering and pressing together like sheep in a field for warmth. They’re all so young and pretty, it makes Angela wonder why two old crones are coming to such a place. They’re old enough to be here, sure, but they’re also old enough to be the mothers of much of the crowd. 

“Bea,” Moira coos to the doorwoman. They exchange handshakes, big grins all around. “You’re looking smashing tonight. Is that one new?”

Bea flexes her bicep, showing off the tattoo in question. “Yeah! Just got it done, still got the tape an’ everything! You like it?”

“Oh, yes. There is something charming about topless mermaids riding a dolphin that just...ah. Just lovely, darling.”

Bea leans to one side, giving Angela a look. She looks back up to Moira. “New arm candy, doc?”

Moira chuckles. “No, not quite. This is Angela Zeigler. Yes - that one.”

Bea stiffens. “Whoa.”

Angela waves with a meek smile on her face. “Hello.”

“It’s an honor, I - oh god, you two should get outta the snow. Have a good night, ladies!”

Angela has never gotten into a place like this in a manner like that in her entire life. She was never a party person - she spent her entire educational career up the ass of her professors, studying until her eyeballs felt like they’d give out. The Cherry Pie is one hell of a way to get your feet wet in the realm of clubs. The whole place smells like sweet alcohol and berries, the lighting makes it look like Valentine’s day. There is a massive bar with a Greek column motif, a dance floor with a sea of drunk girls, and loud music blaring over speakers shaped like hearts. There is an upstairs mostly concealed by how high up it is. There are more pink and red lights, as well as massive pink booths with big wooden tables. There is a smaller bar upstairs, but Angela can’t see it from the floor. Moira leads her in as though they were entering a ball rather than a massive lesbian club. Angela feels her face get hot. 

“I have a private booth.” Moira puts her lips right against Angela’s ear, hot breath rolling down her neck. Angela shivers. “Come on.”

They climb the stairs beside the bar. They’re metal, but covered in a plush red carpet. The walls upstairs are decorated with vintage movie posters where the main couples are replaced with fashionably dressed lesbians. Beside those are big neon hearts and lips, as well as a signature outline of a steaming pie. Moira leads Angela to the far back left, where they step up into a massive booth right under a dark red light. Moira gestures for Angela to slide in first, and then quickly follows. 

Angela is overwhelmed. 

Moira, on the other hand, looks pleased as punch. She shrugs off her coat and scarf, revealing her collared shirt. She rolls the sleeves up to her elbows, before smoothing her hair back. A cute waitress in a retro 50’s waitress outfit that is far too short for her practically skips over. Her russet hair is done up in pigtails, her makeup big and dramatic. She’s unspeakably cute, and Angela has to look away when she realizes she can see her lacy panties under her skirt when she bends over. 

“Moira! Oh my goodness, it’s been ages!” the waitress cheers. They exchange cheek kisses. “You look fabulous!”

“Would you believe I just got off a twelve-hour shift?” Moira chuckles. She leans back in the booth, putting an arm up over the top and crossing one leg over the other. Angela feels like she’s vibrating. “Oh, Kitty, this is Angela.”

Kitty grins at Angela, waving. “Howdy, sugar! You got nice hair.”

“Thanks, I - your makeup is most impressive.”

“Aw, thank you, honey! Moira, I didn’t know you had a lady friend.”

Moira laughs. She waves Kitty off. “Please, we’re colleagues. I’m not her type.”

“I - “

“Tut tut, Angela,” Moira says with a wag of her finger. “Anyhow. Kitty, I’ll take two love martinis, please. No ice. Lemon curl.”

“Oh, always! I’ll be right back with that, baby!”

Kitty the waitress wiggles off. Moira watches her go with a hungry look. Once she’s out of sight, Moira turns back to Angela, and smiles. 

“So, how are you liking it so far?”

She has to laugh. This whole thing is absurd. Moira, the girls, the club - it’s positively ridiculous. Are they twenty-somethings again? Moira’s lips draw into a purse, her brows knitting together. 

“Did I say something funny, Angela?”

The blond shakes her head gently, putting a thin hand on her cheek. “This is...a lot. I had no idea you were so active in the local nightlife.” 

Kitty returns with a tray on one hand with two bright pink drinks on top. She makes quite a show of placing each delicate martini glass on the table. The rim is sugared, the liquid inside looks like melted cotton candy, and both glasses have that bright yellow lemon peel curled delicately on the edge of the glass. Moira slips Kitty a folded bill, which she takes with an excited squeal. She gives Moira a peck on the cheek, before click-clacking away to attend to something else. 

Moira picks her glass up with the tips of her fingers, taking a brief sip before looking sharply back at Angela. “There is much you don’t know about me.” 

Something about the way she says that with that deep purr of hers makes Angela sit up a little straighter. She picks up her own glass and sips; the burn hits her almost instantly. Whatever is in this drink is strong - but she gets the lovely flavor of guava, lime, and just the ghost of mint. The sugar around the rim makes it go down a little easier with that dash of sweetness. Her nose wrinkles anyhow. 

“Bit strong for you?”

“No - just not what I expected.” Angela sets the glass back down, twisting it with the tips of her fingers. “One might think you were trying to get me drunk.”

Moira laughs cooly. She takes another sip, leaving a faint red stain on the glass. “Just loosening you up. Besides - it is my favorite.” 

Silence falls between the two. Distantly, the music from downstairs thuds to an unfamiliar beat while the women downstairs presumably dance their bodies sore. The lights flash bright pinks and whites. Up above, where they are, though, it is comfortably still. The other booths are mostly empty, and those that have people are far away. So it feels like watching the life of the club from behind a microscope. Angela has always viewed things that way. She suspects Moira is somewhere similar. It is the curse of the scientist. 

“Cat got your tongue?”

Angela hadn’t even noticed she had been drifting off into her subconscious. She takes a sip of her drink to ease the embarrassed tension. “Sorry. I just haven’t been to a place like this since...well, almost ever. I gave most of my younger years to my medical degree. You did the same, no?”

“Oh, sure. But I still made time to enjoy myself. You’re only young once.”

Hm. She’s right. Angela’s head is already fuzzy from the massive amount of what she assumes is tequila in her drink, so Moira’s poise makes her face feel warm. Maybe if she did not know what she knows about Moira, they could have been friends. Her arrogance and sarcastic nature is not so different from her own. Angela likes to present herself as calm and kind, and she is - but there is a wry pessimist under the surface. Nobody ever got to see that side of her aside from Moira. And perhaps she was right. Perhaps she needed to...live a little. 

“I hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” Moira says through a smirk. She finishes her glass, and waves her hand in the air to signal for another. “I’m sure you’re just aching to get back to your mediocre, unobserved night.”

Angela scoffs. What nerve. She finishes her drink and waves her own hand for another. “I don’t live a mediocre life! We save lives all day!”

“Sure, we do. But what is it like on your days off? When you're home alone? I imagine you take a bath, put on some cheap slippers, and watch romantic comedies in your pajamas. Please - try and argue.”  
She’s right. Moira has her down to a T, and she hates it. Kitty delivers another set of martinis, and Angela does not hesitate to toss back at least half of it. She sets the glass back down afterwards, taking a deep, ugly breath before leaning back in her seat. Her right leg crosses over her left, her arms crossing over her chest. “Oh, and your life is so much more exciting.”

“Well,” she chuckles, leaning on the table, “I have a new woman in my bed most nights.”

Angela blinks. Is she...is she flirting?

“Congratulations,” she snorts. Angela takes another drink - and finishes it. She waves for yet another. “Manipulating young girls into your - wait a minute. You like women?”

Moira barks with laughter. It is uncharacteristic how loudly she laughs. The gusto behind it - it makes Angela shrink back in her seat, feeling embarrassed. Perhaps that was a stupid question…

“This _is_ a lesbian bar, Angela,” Moira chuckles. “You are an eejit, aren’t you?” 

“No! No, just - I suppose I never…”

“Oh, drink up, Zeigler. You’re far more fun under the influence.” 

“That feels sexually charged,” Angela snorts. “But I’ll indulge you. You’re paying, though.”

Moira smirks. “Of course, angel. Drink up.”


End file.
